The Sanctuary of You
by Olivia028
Summary: His hands are soaked in the blood of wicked men. Her's are stained with the ink of the printed truth. Even in the sin pit that is Cheyenne, it seems as if love between them can never be. But that sure as hell won't stop them from trying. A Louise Ellison x John Campbell one shot. Season 4


**A/N: Hello Hell on Wheels fans! The recent _excitement_ between Ellison and Campbell in season 4 appealed to me way more than I thought it would. But sadly there's hardly nothing out there (in writing or drawings) to share in my interest. So, I thought I'd help add to the sparse collection of Hell on Wheels works here and add one of my own. **

**Hope you like it!**

**Enjoy!**

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><p>The Sanctuary of You<p>

He had set the table the first time, draped it in a white lace cloth that fluttered in the breeze on the balcony. My mind still goes back to that, why he would go through the formality of such an act, just to leave it there untouched in the soft sunlight while we made love under the cover of our… curiosities. He said I had intrigued him, and I couldn't help but adopt the sentiment. He was after all the first man to catch my attention in that way. Knowing that my past exploits with women had not discouraged his interests was a comfort of its own I suppose and perhaps that was part of his intrigue. But he never inquired further than to confirm that it was true. Somehow that was enough for him.

I like to think, that when I lay in his arms in the still, hushed hours of the night, that that's enough for him too. Our presence is our promise to one another. Life in this hell town forbids the foolish pursuit of happy endings. But with the darkness of Cheyenne comes the sweet shade of ignorance. Those brief hours when the whores sleep in feather beds and the men of the west trade grit for dreams of serenity, that's when I'm with him. That's when we're together.

There's no Wyoming to govern in that room, no newspaper headlines can find their way under that door. Somehow within those 4 walls I'm not just a reporter, I've become Louise again. Wanted, desired, and touched. Louise again. What an oddity that it would be him to return this identity to me. But then, there are many things about John that are beautifully unusual. Roughly unknowable. Perfectly flawed.

It's becoming harder to remember the difference between day and night. Dreams of evening have been slipping into my mind , wanting him in the light as I have him in darkness. When he visits me at the press, tips his hat, and helps himself to a cup of coffee, I can't help but wish he would stay; filling the air with the smoke of his cigar until it seeps into every page of parchment. Then, at least, I would have a part of him when he leaves. But his posse of gunman stand beyond the windows, the words 'Cheyenne Leader' scrawled backwards across their harsh faces is a potent reminder that our worlds don't' match. And suddenly I'm made to feel the guilt of even wanting that trace of him.

John's reasons to enter the office are often laced with warning. Printing the brutal accounts of his law enforcement will incite unnecessary concern for the public, he says. The peculiar set of morals that my lover keeps still amazes me. Hanging a man from the rafters of the casino, that's all in the name of justice, to keep the people safe. But writing about it, to inform the same people of how their safety is being secured, why, that would only endanger their wellbeing. Despite his efforts I've continued to publish the truth, and will continue to do so. My heart belongs to the man with passion in his eyes, not the one who carries a gun on his hip.

These days, however, I've found myself longing for both. Would it be so difficult to imagine in a place as hell torn and soaked in sin that we could be together? To blaze through the glare of judgment as the Union Pacific blazes through the last of the American west, the newspaper woman and the governor; arm and arm through the muddied streets of this big bad railroad town. One's hands are stained in the blood of criminals, the other's in the ink of truth. Shouldn't the poetry of that alone… constitute that they might be held together without challenge as I have wished many a night before dreading the impending dawn.

John Campbell is a man of civilization, law, and order. His values are my own, if not a little skewed in their delivery, his heart is mine too. And I will continue to share these with him for as long as he will have me. Be it in the quite reserve of that dark bedroom, or in the honest light of our impossible future.

I shift beneath the sheets, readjusting to lay my head against his chest. Slowly it rises and falls, the faint thumping of his heart beats in time with the hush of his breathing. I feel his arm wrap around me in his sleep and once again pleasure is with me. There is a table with a pair of chairs sitting on the balcony. The chairs are empty for all to see, and inside I know that's how they will remain.


End file.
